Ah, and this is the sentimental hour, just when the sun begins to touch the horizon line of the stale, weary old earth and turns it into rosy gold and heals its troubles and its weariness.

Schon, Schon!" He stood for a moment bareheaded to the breeze, and made a great florid salutation to the sun, now only half-disk above the horizon.
"There! I have said my evensong," he remarked, "like a good German, who always and always is ridiculous to the whole world, except those who are German also.

Oh, I can see how we look to the rest of the world so well.
Beer mug in one hand, and mouth full of sausage and song, and with the other hand, perhaps, fingering a revolver.

How unreal it must seem to you, how affected, and yet how, in truth, you miss it all.

Scratch a Russian, they say, and you find a Tartar; but scratch a German and you find two things--a sentimentalist and a soldier.